


Interesting

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, And I have plenty more to come, Athelstan is also asexual, Athelstan is an interesting person, F/M, I had to write some unrequited love stuff after the latest episode, M/M, Most of the pairings listed above are wishful thinking on Ragnar's part, Ragnar doesn't know this (neither does Athelstan), Ragnar likes to fuck interesting people, So Ragnar fucks Floki instead, the Floki/Helga is in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Floki wants Ragnar. Ragnar wants the priest. The priest doesn't particularly want anyone, and can't work out why being a virgin is a crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interesting

**Author's Note:**

> So "I loved you more than that Priest ever did!" happened, and I thought it deserved fic. This occurs at some indeterminate time between Ragnar's acquisition of Athelstan and his becoming Jarl.

His name is Athelstan, and he’s interesting.

Ragnar needs to visit Floki anyway – their old fishing boat is suffering from the time Rollo put his spear through the bottom during one of his and Torstein’s drunken exploits (which Ragnar does not endorse or indulge in, but only if Lagertha asks). They’d plugged it up, apologising, but the sealant hadn’t set and it’s never been the same. By the time you’re halfway across the lake the fish are practically swimming around your ankles – which makes for good hauls, sneezing children, and a lot of soaked trouser cuffs. 

But Ragnar won’t deny that he has an ulterior motive in arranging this meeting. Floki is _interesting,_ and Athelstan is _interesting_ but in a very different way to Floki. And Ragnar being Ragnar, wants nothing more than to lock them in a storehouse and see what they do to one another. 

Yes, Ragnar can feel it. He’s buoyant, elated – this trip is going to go well. Were he Floki he’d probably be giggling in delight. But he’s Ragnar. And so he bounds over a log without warning, making Athelstan choke and stumble as the rope pulls taught. 

“Sorry,” he calls over his shoulder, not really meaning it. Judging by Athelstan’s affronted glare, he knows it. But he doesn’t speak up to defend himself like a freeman would. Nor does he cow away like a slave. He just stands there and glares, and the next time Ragnar tugs his rope he pulls back – just a little, not enough to stop Ragnar but enough to make him work to make Athelstan comply. “You’re going to rub a hole through your neck,” he scolds, reeling the monk in and checking the reddened skin. It’s sore but not raw; still, he feels a touch of guilt when Athelstan rubs it, obviously smarting, and directs his glare at Ragnar’s feet. In the process, he gives Ragnar an unobstructed view of his scalp. Snickering, he makes a fist and knocks on the stubbled pale flesh like he’s testing wood for worm. “A hole like this one on the top of your head.” 

“It’s not a hole,” says Athelstan patiently, although he and Ragnar both know that Ragnar knows it. “It’s called a _tonsure._ All men like me wear them.” 

Ragnar chuckles. He nods for Athelstan to walk in front of him, letting him set the pace so that the rope doesn’t chafe. “You are not one of those men though. Not anymore.” Athelstan’s sigh is small and fragile. 

“No. I suppose I’m not.” 

*** 

His name is Athelstan, and he’s annoying. And short. And he has silly hair. And he’s _Christian_. And Ragnar likes him. 

Floki isn’t sure which crime is worst. But it doesn’t really matter, because they all compound within Athelstan’s being – his short, pudgy, big-eyed, weird-haired being, which for some reason Ragnar can’t take his eyes off. Floki can’t help but be driven to a single conclusion: 

He doesn’t like Athelstan. 

In fact, he doesn’t like him so much that he can’t be bothered to learn his name – or at least, that’s what he pretends, crouched over the flames with a hunch in his neck as he glowers at Ragnar and his pet _Christian_ , sipping on his stew, seated side by side. 

“ _Priest_ ,” he spits, chin cradled in his hands. Athelstan head snaps up, too quick; the hand cradling the bowl flicks out and a blob of stew lands with a sizzle in Floki’s roaring firepit. Ragnar, of course, snorts laughter into his beard. That should make Floki happy. Usually, it would make Floki happy. Only this isn’t the laugh Ragnar directs at Rollo when he can’t catch the kid goats, or at Floki when he falls out of a tree. It’s something else entirely – something warm and _affectionate_ , and it makes Floki’s stomach twist. Fighting the sickness down, he instead cocks his head at the glinting silver around Athelstan’s neck. “What’s that at your throat, _Priest_? Some symbol of your false God?” 

“Floki!” says Ragnar chidingly. His voice is warm, but Floki can hear the warning there. He leers at him in return, face made ghoulish by the fire. But the burgeoning stare-down is broken when Athelstan shrugs, swallows, and answers. 

“Yes – the crucifix, the sign of Christ.” 

“ _Christ_ …” Floki’s mouth rolls around the unfamiliar world, eking it out into a hiss. “Your dead God.” 

“The son of God,” Athelstan corrects. He doesn’t quail under Floki’s sneer, instead pulling himself into a more upright position, as if the mere mention of his idol-deity bolsters his strength. “Although he is God made flesh. And he did die, but he rose again.” 

“Odin died too,” Floki hears himself saying. “He sacrificed himself. Hung on a tree for nine nights with a spear in his belly, that he might learn the secret runes.” Ragnar is watching him through the flames. His eyes are unreadable, but they are calculating – what, Floki doesn’t know. Hit by a wave of frustration, he snaps his mouth shut before he can recount the Runatal and tease this foolish little _Priest_ with the promise of knowledge unknown, and goes back to stubbornly picking at the charcoal. 

Why does he feel the need to prove his faith against this new God, this _Christian_ God? It goes without saying that the AEsir are real – the AEsir walk among them, they live, they breathe, they fight. What is this _Christ_ to that? Some foolish mushroom-dream. 

Then Ragnar turns to the monk, bowl half-finished and forgotten on the earth besides him, and says “tell me more of your Christian God.” 

Athelstan, emboldened further, does so – launching into a tale of beginnings and light, and God seeing light, and seeing that light was good. The sickness in Floki’s stomach gnaws like a lamprey. This monk – this _priest_ – this snivelling, pathetic creature whose soft hands have never held an axe… Has he been sent by the Gods to test Ragnar’s faith? It can’t be. It’s impossible. Ragnar would never waver, Ragnar has always been true to the Gods, to Odin, his father – for while others around Kattegat may scoff and mock, Floki has always believed in that tale. He knew from the moment he saw those eyes, clear and blue as the icebergs that come sailing down the river in spring spate, that this is a man of Odin’s line. A man descended from the Gods. Touched by the Æsir. Destined for great things – just as he is. And as Loki followed Odin, so too will Floki follow Ragnar, his chosen brother, until the end of days. 

One little _priest_ can’t destroy that. 

And yet, Floki thinks, watching as Ragnar ducks his head to murmur another question into Athelstan’s ear, it seems he can. He hunkers down further, pretending to be engrossed in stirring the smouldering embers around the fire edge. Floki is going to have to be wary of this one. If Ragnar cannot see the danger of the priest, Floki will have to see it for him. Floki will be his eyes, will watch for him where he is blind, will protect him where he is defenceless. 

_Do not fear for him_ , he thinks, directing his thoughts to Asgarð where a grizzled one-eyed wanderer sits on an all-seeing throne. _He will not falter. I will not allow him to. This I swear, by the blood of Odin in his veins. By the blood of Loki in mine._

*** 

They sleep on the spare pallet built into the wall, opposite Floki’s. Or rather, Ragnar does – being a slave, Athelstan is not afforded such luxury. Which is why, when Floki blinks awake at midnight to the smell of burnt ashes and Ragnar’s rasping whisper, asking whether Athelstan will join him in his bed, he thinks for a moment he must have misheard. Even if the priest is _interesting_ to Ragnar, even if Ragnar’s boundless curiosity demands that he explore this new religion – why should he care about his comfort? Unless he is a bed slave of some sort – but the next part of the conversation cuts off that train of thought. 

“I… I shouldn’t,” the priest whispers, voice halting. The foreign accent grates on Floki’s ears; he wants nothing more than to press his palms over them, roll over, and go back to sleep, so that he can send Ragnar on his way the next morning with the promise of a new boat and pretend none of this had happened. But his duty to Ragnar, his promise to the Gods – they bind him to listen. He must discover more about this priest, if he is to defeat him. Hasn’t Ragnar always said that knowledge is power? 

And the priest’s next words are definitely enlightening – “You know that my order forbids me from sins of the flesh. And even if it did not – it is against the laws of nature, to do this, to lie with a man!” 

It’s not like Floki’s never heard that before. 

But to hear familiar words, repeated in this unfamiliar voice – Athelstan does not speak of _ergi_ as if it is shameful, but rather as if it is impossible, unheard of, utterly unthinkable and alien to him. That will change. Floki’s fists clench gleefully into his scratchy blanket. He pulls a handful to his face, breathing in sweat and stale wool and a faint trace of Helga, and strains to hear what Ragnar will reply, how he will put the slave in his place and order him to his bed, force him to service him and break him against his will. 

But Ragnar just rolls onto his back, wooden pallet creaking, and drapes a dramatic hand across his eyes. 

“Whatever,” he says, yawning wide enough to make his jaw crack. “Would you like one of my blankets though? For a pillow?” Athelstan smiles – a private little thing, shared between the two of them. Floki can’t see it, but his half-lidded eyes watch the priest tip his chin in a nod, watch as Ragnar shuffles around and wads up the upper blanket – the one Floki had given him specially, his and Helga’s favourite, soft and supple and nearly as old as they are – and tosses it in the priest’s face. 

Floki scowls. 

Athelstan murmurs his thanks, screws up the blanket further, and settles back down with it cushioning his head from the dusty ground. All Floki can see of him is his bald skull, shining in its ring of ridiculous curls. His limbs are tucked under his small fat body, and he is curled in on himself like a tree-grub. Ragnar’s breathing soon evens. Athelstan’s follows it. He makes light, whuffly snores, occasionally burying his face deeper into the blanket, and Floki finds himself twitching, lips peeling back from his teeth. 

He’ll burn that blanket, in the morning. He’ll burn it and he’ll wish it’s the priest he holds, screeching and twisting in the flames. 

Helga will forgive him. Eventually. 

Sleep eludes him. Floki spends the rest of the night in silent contemplation, glaring hatred at Athelstan’s scalp. Perhaps if he glares hard enough, the Gods will answer him. Perhaps they will let him die of winter fever, or direct him to a patch of poisonous mushrooms when he’s peckish. Anything to send him to Hel – for Floki knows that Valhalla is not where this one belongs. But his praying comes to naught. Athelstan wakes the next morning, before even Ragnar. When he notices Floki, with his red-lined eyes and hateful, trembling mouth, he smiles and says in explanation – “I had to be wake before the sunrise, back at the monastery. _Matins_ , you see – morning prayers.” And with that he nods, stretches, and goes to relieve himself in the woods. 

“May you get eaten by a bear,” Floki hisses viciously when he’s certain he’s out of earshot. It’s loud enough to wake Ragnar, who snorts and grunts, rolling like a beaching whale, and blinking blearily at Floki over the dead fire. 

“Are you talking to me?” 

Floki sniffs. “No.” 

“Alright then.” They lay in silence. Ragnar shifts over the pallet, his movements narrated by a chorus of creaks. Floki keeps his own blanket pulled up over his face and lays still. His dark-ringed eyes are the only part of him visible, that and the odd tuft of sparse soft hair. Everything feels prickly and heavy, like it always does after a night spent on little sleep when there’s nothing to occupy his hands with. Floki, of course, will gladly stay awake until his legs give out on them if he’s got a project to work on, but without purpose, his body grows lethargic and his mind dulls like a blunted blade. So when Ragnar next speaks, it takes him a while to process what the strange words mean. 

*** 

Ragnar can’t pretend that he wasn’t disappointed when Athelstan refused his offer. But he can’t pretend he wasn’t surprised either. Still, as he lounges on Floki’s poky little guest pallet, knee scraping along the wall and morning erection lifting the covers into an exaggerated tent, he figures it was worth the attempt. One day. Some day. Athelstan will say yes. 

Ragnar doesn’t know why he desires the little monk, who is so different from the men and women he’s fucked before – soft in all the wrong places, muscles lax and flabby from a lifetime spent pouring over manuscripts, a hairstyle that even the more _adventurous_ raiders would turn their noses up at. But he is. And Ragnar has never been one to deny himself, not in this. Lagertha had agreed with his request for the monk to join them in their bed, even if she hadn’t understood it. She’d whispered her permission that he could fuck him into his ear, as she walked them to the edge of Ragnar’s farmstead and bitten her goodbye kiss into his neck – after all, no children could come from a dalliance with a mortal man, no matter how weak, no matter how effeminate or _argr_. Ragnar had returned her kiss fiercely, and his love for her had filled his chest like warm mead in a wineskin. 

But it had been for nothing. Athelstan stayed true to his faith, stayed true to his _God_ and all his silly little rules. 

So. 

Here is Ragnar. 

Drowsy. Comfortable. 

Hard as a fucking stallion. 

Unbidden, a childhood story swims into his mind: the tale of Asgarð’s mighty fortifications. A tale that concerned two giants, a wager for made with the sun, the moon, and Freyja herself… And a very large horse. 

He slants his eyes over at Floki. The man is curled up on his side, tight as a woodlouse, bundled in blankets up to his eyes. 

Ragnar wonders if he’d be up for a quick fuck. 

Ragnar wonders if Athelstan’s faith will allow him to watch. 

As with everything, there is only one way to find out. 

“Floki,” he calls softly, watching the boatbuilder start back to life. When he has his attention, he cants his hips up, emphasizing the outline of his cock through the taut blanket. “Want me to be your Svaiðlfari?” 

Usually it’s the other way around. It’s Floki who makes the lewd propositions (or Helga, if she’s in the vicinity) and Ragnar who laughs him off. Now that the tables have been turned, Floki seems unsure as to how to react. His fingers fidget under the blanket. He pulls it down far enough to free his nose and mouth, kohl-stained cheeks glowing red from the warmth of his breath under the thickly woven wool – and Ragnar _sees_ the moment his words make sense, sees the budding realisation cross his friend’s face. 

“You mean…” 

“Yes, I mean. Get over here.” Ragnar jerks his hips again. There’s no more hesitation on Floki’s part – he scrambles out of his bed, tangling himself up in his blanket and falling flat on the floor in the process. By the time he reaches Ragnar’s side he’s giggling and half-covered in ash. His baggy pants hang low on his hips. Ragnar can count his ribs. 

Ragnar pulls him down on top of him, so that his thighs split neatly around Ragnar’s waist, and wipes a fond thumb through the ash on his cheek, clearing a track of clean skin. Relatively clean that is – Floki is, as always, stained over with sweat and dirt and sticky tree-sap. He smells like the forest, earth and fresh wood. It’s a smell Ragnar never particularly desires at any other time than when he’s with him, but he inhales hungrily now, smoothing his palm down Floki’s bare chest – then stops when he notices how bloodshot his eyes are. 

“Did you sleep?” Floki shrugs off the question. 

“A little.” 

“Did we disturb you?” He squeezes Floki’s prick, grinning lewdly. “I’ll make it up to you.” Floki doesn’t rise to the innuendo as he normally does – well he _does_ rise, filling out Ragnar’s palm as he cups him and rubs him through his coarse pants. But his face falls and he glances over at the hut’s open door. Sound slithers in, birdsong and rustling leaves. And Athelstan of course: footsteps crunching as he walks through the undergrowth, enjoying the feel of the fresh air and whistling one of his hymns. 

“We should lock that,” Floki says darkly. “Don’t want your _priest_ walking in.” 

“Don’t we?” asks Ragnar. Floki can’t tell if he’s joking. He makes to swing off of his lap regardless, wanting to shut away the outside world and all its harsh realities and false gods, just for this moment. But Ragnar holds him in place by the hips, rubbing warm circles into the grubby skin. “Leave it,” he says, and guides him down into a kiss before Floki can work up the will to protest. 

Besides, Floki tells himself as Ragnar runs his tongue over the ridged roof of Floki’s mouth, even if the Priest _does_ saunter back before he’s welcome, it’s not like he’ll _watch_. This is something to be shared between him and Ragnar. The priest will only be disgusted – and why should Floki care, if he traumatizes some delicate Christian? 

That thought in mind, Floki leans into the kiss, tilting his head sideways until Ragnar’s beard scratches his throat. He rakes his dirty nails through the hair on Ragnar’s chest, down and down, until he can teasingly flick the head of Ragnar’s erection and swallow his groan. That Priest and his foolish religion – he will never know this. He will never enjoy this. He will never have Ragnar surging up against him, palming his ass with one hand and his cock with the other. He will never feel full and sated around Ragnar’s cock, he will never see Ragnar’s ice blue eyes slim to blissful slits as he comes. 

Why, if Floki didn’t hate him, he’d almost pity him. 

Ragnar’s fingers are tugging insistently at the drawstring on his pants. Floki decides he has other things – more _important_ things – to worry about, than Ragnar’s squishy pet virgin, who might wander through that doorway at any time. 

Pushing Ragnar away, Floki wriggles out of his pants and discards them over the side of the bed. The drawstrings are knotted into an oaky clump, only undoable with the aid of tweezers and a hatchet. But Floki’s lost more weight since he stopped bothering to untie the laces every morning, and they slide off with ease. Ragnar runs his hands up his hairy legs, starting from his calves, pressing into the warm backs of his knees to make Floki lift himself up onto them, then kneading his thighs until his hands meet over Floki’s ass. 

“You got any…?” Ragnar asks, smacking him lightly. Floki giggles and stretches to his full height as he searches the shelf above Ragnar’s bed for the pot of grease he keeps for these matters. It’s kind of like watching a snake elongate – Ragnar snickers, pushing onto his elbows. He gives the cock bobbing in front of his face a quick peck. “Lanky tree-fucker.” 

“Short goat-fucker,” Floki retorts, wriggling his hips to encourage Ragnar to take his cock in his mouth. It would be unseemly, for any warrior to let himself be used so – or at least, that is what warriors like Rollo believe, who are more concerned with what others say strength is than strength itself. But Ragnar’s become quite fond of taking men in this way over the years. There’s something unspeakably powerful about it, having that delicate organ pressed against his teeth. He’ll tease them open with his fingers while he does it, sometimes, reduce them to a pleading maid as he squeezes and pinches that place inside of them that makes their thighs tremble around his head. Intention set, he’s about to indulge Floki when the boatbuilder squawks in victory. He crashes back down, delivering a small, unadorned wooden pot as he does so. Then he rocks back on his heels, charmingly eager, and starts to fidget. Taking his time – not least because Floki’s scrawny body is shifting over his groin like it wants to be pierced dry – Ragnar cracks the pot open, sniffs, shrugs, and scoops out a generous dollop to coat his fingers. 

“Alright?” he murmurs, dragging a sticky index down the cleft of Floki’s ass. Floki shivers. 

“You couldn’t warm it up a bit first?” he asks plaintively, but he doesn’t complain as Ragnar snorts and dips his fingertip inside of him. The grease is cold and sticky, smearing a jelly-like residue over Floki’s skin. He shivers and bears down, Ragnar’s finger sliding deep, and tries to catch his mouth again – Ragnar twists away though, leaning back so he can watch his face twist as he pumps his knuckles against Floki’s rim. He adds another, scissoring with the motion just to see Floki’s mouth fall open, and bury them in until he’s tapping on the tight inner ring. 

“Enough already,” Floki pants, too soon, sinking grubby nails into Ragnar’s wrist. “I want _you_.” Ragnar gives one last two-fingered thrust, just to be contrary. He crooks them forwards towards the inside of Floki’s belly – Floki’s eyes roll back and his tongue flutters in his throat, an odd, stuttering sound. He yanks out Ragnar’s fingers fast enough to make himself wince. 

Then without further preamble, he sits on his cock. 

It is, as always, exquisite. Floki trembles around him like a guttering flame, and Ragnar feels every shiver and twitch as he grits his teeth and scratches Ragnar’s captive wrist and forces himself to relax. When Floki’s eyes finally open, they’re as dark as the kohl around them, pupils engorged. With his tufty hair spiked with sweat and his mouth soft and bruised, he looks about as attractive as it is possible for him to be – Ragnar combs his fingers roughly over his scalp, surprised as ever by the softness of the sparse fuzz, and hungrily fucks up into him while Floki bounces and clenches and gasps. It’s not long before he locates that place inside Floki that his fingers had quested out. He knows as soon as he’s hit, because Floki’s shoulders push forwards and his hands splay over Ragnar’s scarred chest. He groans long and low, eyelids drooping. After that, Ragnar makes sure to angle his thrusts, rubbing him in just the right way until Floki’s prick is shimmering with pre-come and his foot, which dangles off the edge of the narrow cot, jerks in spasmodic abandon. 

“You’re setting me on fire,” Floki chokes out. He arches his back, and Ragnar smooths his palms down wiry flanks, feeling the muscles quiver. “By the Gods… Ragnar!” 

“And you’re too noisy.” Ragnar squeezes his nape and guides him into another kiss. He feels Floki giggle against his lips. 

“And I will – I will – ah! – continue to be so, until, until all Midgardr knows your name.” 

It would be enough, Ragnar thinks, if just one monk knew it – if Athelstan knew what it sounded like, when spoken in a hitching moan. But he’s wise enough not to say so. 

Instead, Ragnar lets his eyes drift shut. He focuses on sensation and pleasure, and on giving pleasure in return: huffing hot breath over Floki’s collarbones, biting and suckling the salty skin. His fingers splay over Floki’s thighs, thumbs digging into the juncture between leg and groin. When they first began, Floki squeezed his cock as he drew off like he was trying to drag Ragnar up with him, into him, gravity be damned, and then relaxed as he dropped back down. But Floki’s never been the most predictable of people. And now, as Ragnar’s thumbs trace lower, hands following, to meet under the full-blooded circle of Floki’s cock, any sense of rhythm is lost. Floki cants his body forwards demandingly. He fills out Ragnar’s calloused hands, bouncing on his lap like the slave girls Ragnar’d fucked in his adolescent years, back before Lagertha had whirled into his life like a wild winter storm and he’d still thought that any warm body was good enough for his bed. 

The thought of Lagertha – of Lagertha and Athelstan, together – has Ragnar’s pulse pounding like a wardrum in his ears. 

“Floki,” he says, skimming fingertips up the twitching vein under the boatbuilder’s lean cock. Floki ceases his recitation of Ragnar’s name, interspersed as it is with the name of their mythical fathers and the occasional heartfelt curse. 

“What?” he answers. His head tilts and his eyes linger on Ragnar’s dry lips. In that moment, Ragnar knows Floki would let him do almost anything to him; would let him lick his pretty woman’s cunt, or drag him out onto the beach at Kattegat and fuck him in front of Earl Haraldson and every warrior in the village. It’s a powerful thought, one which has Ragnar bucking up and meeting Floki’s shallowing bounces with fierce thrusts of his own. Will he do _that_ for him though, he wonders? Will he let him arrange him on the stomped straw flooring of the farmhouse and fuck him slow and steady while Athelstan watches, to reassure him that this is nothing to be feared? 

To test, he gives Floki a small, private smile. It’s the sort he reserves for Lagertha in those quiet moments when they’re curled around each other in the long morning shadows, the sort which crinkles his eyes and thaws the ice into something soft and loving. Floki shivers in response, from the fingers tugging at Ragnar’s beard to the ass around his cock. His toes curl, and the knee that’s resting dangerously close to the edge of the pallet seems to buckle as if Floki’s lost the strength to hold himself up. 

He recovers fast enough. But Ragnar knows. 

Yes. 

Yes he will. 

Still, perhaps a little more coercion is needed. To sweeten the deal, so to speak. 

“I shall fuck you again,” he declares, sandwiching Floki’s cock between his hot dry palms. Floki – as expected – resumes his tireless ride; his dark-painted eyes bulge with the silent plea for Ragnar to continue. Smirking, Ragnar does so. “When we next sail west,” he clarifies. “We will make land on a grey sand shore, and I shall order the men to make camp.” Floki’s movements pick up as he talks, clever fingers rolling Ragnar’s nipples, and Ragnar finds that his next words come out considerably breathier. “We shall – we shall pillage, and plunder, we shall take what is – ah – _ours_ , by the Gods, and then, then I shall drag you down to the beach and into the water, and I will fuck you against the prow of our beautiful boat.” 

It’s hardly a declaration of love. Nevertheless, Floki, head tipped back but eyes firmly on him, flushes with something other than pure arousal. His body stutters down until they are fully joined, not a hair’s breadth between them, and the bony globes of his ass dig into Ragnar’s thighs. Ragnar winces. But he doesn’t grumble – they soften when Floki relaxes, and Ragnar’s victory is cemented when Floki’s hands skitter over his shoulders and cradle his face. When he kisses him it’s like Ragnar’s a drowned man he’s pulled from the lake. Stale breath pushes into his lungs, and his mouth is sloppy and desperate. Ragnar patiently eases him back so that he can keep up the steady thrum of words. 

His voice has Floki squirming. He spreads his knees further, one scraping the edge of the thin pallet, and arches his back delightfully when Ragnar grinds up. Wrapping his arms around him, torsos slick as mating eels from their mingling sweat, Ragnar tells him how he’s going to paint their sail white. How he’ll pull Floki from his place at the prow and finger him to a wailing mess while the storm rages and the men snore all around. How he’ll sneak into his and Helga’s bed one winter’s morning, and wake them one by one with his tongue. 

It’s as he’s narrating the details of that last fantasy – Helga’s milky juices staining his chin as he swallows down Floki’s cock – that he hears a sharp intake of breath from the hut door. 

Ragnar’s grin grows. 

It becomes infinitely more wicked as Floki, oblivious to their visitor, rises up and flexes his thighs, giving Athelstan a perfect view of Ragnar’s prick, fat and stiff, gleaming stickily in the morning air. 

Ragnar meets Athelstan’s eyes under Floki’s arm. He nods at him, casual as if they’d caught each other’s gaze across the longfire at mealtime. Then he grabs Floki by the buttock, nails digging deep, and sinks him down until he’s hilted. 

Floki lets out a breathy whine that sends Athelstan’s blush flooding out to his ears. In fact, the priest seems to be blushing everywhere – Ragnar wouldn’t be surprised if he peeled off his tunic right now to find him mottled red from top to bottom. When Floki tries to kiss him again Ragnar shies away, wanting to admire his little priest’s transition into a fly agaric a while longer. 

He wonders if he’ll blush like that when he fucks him. 

If Floki’s aware of his divided attention, he’s too distracted sucking bruises over the tendon in Ragnar’s neck to voice displeasure. Ragnar keeps his thrusts steady, a contrast to Floki’s chaotic twisting. Every time he brushes Floki’s tender prostate he tenses and shudders, sending thrill after thrill through Ragnar’s cock. 

It must make quite the picture. Ragnar lounging back on his bed like a Jarl being serviced. Floki riding him like the wild forest creature he is. And Athelstan, petrified on the threshold, a perfect counterpart to them both, all colours paling in comparison to his spooked blue eyes. Like everything though, their perfect tableau cannot last. Floki clutches the shaved sides of Ragnar’s skull and rasps his words wetly into his ear. 

“I’m gonna…” 

It’s the only warning Ragnar gets. 

Then Floki’s tossing his head back, mouth slack with bliss. Thick white seed splatters over Ragnar’s belly. His cock throbs, and Ragnar pumps him through the orgasm one handed. The other remains on his ass, steadying Floki so he can thrust up hard and fast. He guides Floki to lay with his chest trembling against his own, wiping the slimy seed off of his fingers under the pretence of carding through his sweat-spiked hair. Then, and only then, does he focus on chasing his own release. Not once does he look away from Athelstan. 

The priest’s gaze is tremulous, frozen between shock and horror. But he doesn’t look away either. 

_This could be you_ , Ragnar thinks. His expression contorts as Floki shudders through an aftershock, muscles fluttering around him. _You could have me like this. I could have you like this. I could show you pleasure you could never imagine._

Athelstan, judging by the guppyish expression, isn’t exactly raring to learn by experience. Not yet. In fact, he looks more like he’s contemplating bolting. But that’s alright, Ragnar tells himself, thrusting faster. He’ll come around. He’ll want him soon enough – Ragnar will show him, will teach him, will prove to him that it’s possible for one man to bring another to the brink and send him crashing over, and in such a vast multitude of ways. For now it is not to be – but no matter. 

Ragnar is a patient man. And this – this is the first lesson of many. 

Each jerk of his hips wrings a gasp from Floki. The gasps devolve into whimpers as Ragnar scrapes over that little nub that usually has him begging for more; he supposes it must be too sensitive to do anything other than ache, so soon after his orgasm. But other than a vague recognition, Ragnar’s mind is too engrossed in the future to care for Floki’s discomfort. He pushes himself to the edge with the image of Athelstan panting sweetly in Floki’s place, buttocks jiggling as Ragnar pounds between them. And then of Athelstan laid out on the furs between him and Lagertha, hard and leaking as they kiss the soft brown fur on his belly, begging for them both. Athelstan bleating and shrieking as Ragnar bends him over a trunk in the forest where there’s no one to hear; Athelstan biting his fist as Ragnar teases under his foreskin while Bjorn and Gyda sleep in the next room; Athelstan’s blushing face buried between Lagertha’s thighs, Athelstan, Athelstan, _Athelstan_ … 

He holds Floki’s face against his chest to muffle his grumbled protests, and comes harder than he has in years. And Athelstan, jerked back to his senses, shakes himself and flees into the bright morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please drop a comment below; gives me motivation to write~


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